Growing Pains
by AnnabelleLee87
Summary: This will just be a small collection of glimpses into the boys' lives growing up, and how their relationship evolves along the way. Not super plotty.
1. Chapter 1

The first time their dad truly left them alone they were in Indiana. It was spring but it was still cold, and when Dean looked out the window he could see little blades of grass poking out cautiously from tiny mounds of snow. Dean liked the snow—or he used to; back when his mom would make snow angels with him and he and his dad would have epic snowball battles until she would yell at them to come inside before they got sick. But they didn't do that anymore.

After 'it' happened, Dean didn't talk at all for three months straight—their dad had tried everything; candy, hugs, promises—even a doctor. Dean knew it made his daddy sad, but he couldn't help it. But then Sammy said his first word—Dee—and right then Dean decided that if Sam was going to make an effort to talk to him, then he would have to try to talk to Sammy.

Dean was five and half now, and he'd never been alone for very long. They either stayed at a friend's house or at Uncle Bobby's. But things were different now. Dad had told Dean that he needed to get whatever hurt their mommy; that he had to go fight the monsters so that he and Sam could be safe. Dean didn't understand but he said he did, because his daddy had that look on his face like he was gonna cry, and Dean hated it when their dad cried.

Little Sammy had just turned one, and before their dad left he told Dean to make sure he took care of his little brother. Dean promised he would, as if he needed to be told, but they both knew he didn't. That little squirming bundle had been something Dean knew he would to protect ever since the night he carried him from the burning house.

"Dee, Dee, Dee!" Sammy squealed, a green glob of baby food running down his chin.

He smiled, two little teeth poking out from his pink gums. Sam brought his chubby little hands together excitedly, as if he'd just seen Dean do something amazing and Dean laughed even though it was gross. He used the tiny spoon to scoop the food off his brother's face, held it out, and Sam leaned into it, clamping down on it like it was the best tasting thing he'd ever had.

By the time it was over they were both covered in Sam's dinner, so Dean got a bath ready. He slid Sammy gently in the tub and climbed in beside him. Dean liked taking baths, but he wished Sammy was bigger so he could fill the tub up more and maybe even splash him. Sam didn't have a problem splashing Dean, but Dean knew Sammy was too little to know any better.

Dean squirted a drop of shampoo onto his hand and lathered up Sam's hair. Sammy giggled furiously when Dean made a beard out of the soap bubbles, reaching over to smear it off. Bath time with Sammy was always fun because it was easy to make his little brother laugh when they played in the tub.

Drying Sammy off was harder though—he always put up a struggle at first. Little arms and legs flailed, and Sammy's entire tiny body wiggled, desperately trying to escape Dean's grasp. By now Dean had a lot of practice though, so he knew to give Sammy his teddy bear if he wanted to distract him, smiling when he shoved it into his mouth. It always worked though, and then Dean could finish changing his diaper and putting clean clothes on his baby brother to sleep in.

When they were finally curled up together on the bed—Sammy on the inside by the wall, so he couldn't fall off—Dean relaxed into his breathing. After Sam fell asleep Dean would let the sound and rhythmic movement of his chest to rock him into a peaceful sleep. And on the nights when he was scared, the nights when he missed his mommy the most and his daddy was nowhere to be found, Dean would bury his face in Sammy's neck, the smell of baby shampoo making him smile and reminding him that he had to be brave. He'd wrap his arm around his baby brother's waist, taking comfort in his soft, pudgy body, and know that even though he didn't have hardly anybody sometimes, he always had Sammy—so he was never truly alone.


	2. Chapter 2

By the summer of 1986 Dean was seven years old and he'd been to so many places that sometimes he'd forget where he was. What's more, they'd been left alone, just him and Sammy, enough times now that it actually felt comfortable to Dean.

In fact, their dad's presence was sporadic at best, and when he was home he was didn't want to play anymore. He just sat by himself most of the time drinking whiskey—that stuff he told Dean was just for grownups—and reading his books. Dean knew not to bother him when he was busy like that because it just made his dad mad or sad. Dean didn't like either of those, so he tried to leave him alone. Sometimes it was hard to keep Sammy busy though, because when their dad was home all Sammy wanted to do was crawl all over him. Dad usually let him for a while, but he'd get tired of it once he had the whiskey, and then Dean would have to take Sammy to do something else.

It was summer in Georgia, so it was sweltering, the heat hanging thick like a cloud of smoke, sticking to their skin and making them sweat. Dean couldn't remember a time when he'd been warmer, and one look at little Sammy revealed he wasn't the only one suffering. Now that Sammy was mobile he was everywhere, into everything, and so fast it was hard for Dean to catch him sometimes. Sammy thought it was really funny to run and hide from Dean because he liked to be chased. Sometimes Dean liked it too, but sometimes it just made him tired.

Dean looked out the window and he could see other kids his age playing; some of them rode their bikes, skated, and played tag— all kinds of fun things. Dean looked over at Sammy and back outside, knowing that his dad said they weren't allowed to leave the apartment when he wasn't home. He said Sammy was still too little to go outside without an actual grown up, even though Dean was really good at taking care of him.

Dean looked outside again and wondered what it might be like to play with those kids; he wondered what their names were; he wondered where they lived; he wondered if they were nice or if they'd share their toys with him; he wondered if maybe he could make a friend from one of them. But then he looked back at Sammy, who was sleeping on the couch, and he knew he couldn't go outside and leave him alone. It was too dangerous because Sammy was still little.

"Dean, I hungwy."

Sammy was awake now, his little cheek red from where he was sleeping on his side. He reached up and tugged on Dean's shirt, his deep hazel eyes shining, looking up at Dean expectantly. Sammy had a little streak drool drying in the corner of his mouth and a ring of sweat around his neck. Dean smiled at his brother, wondering how on Earth he managed to get dirty in the apartment.

"Ok. What do ya want, buddy?"

"Cookies."

Dean laughed. "You can't have cookies for dinner, Sammy. But if you eat all your food you can have one for dessert, okay?"

"Why?"

This was a new phase his little brother was going through; Dean called it the 'why phase,' and he was much more tolerant of it than their dad was, even though it annoyed him too. Ever since Sammy really started talking he never stopped—he wanted to know _everything_. He was only three, but he wouldn't accept 'because I said so,' for an answer to anything. Dean had to admit it was fun being able to talk to Sammy now, but when he did that for long enough it was super hard for Dean not to yell at him.

"Cause you have to eat real food first. It's the rules."

"How come, Dean?"

Dean sighed. "Well, if you eat cookies first it makes it harder for you to grow and you'll be small forever."

Sam's eyes grew wider than Dean thought possible and his mouth popped open. He cocked his head to the side, like he might not believe it, but Dean gave him a reassuring nod and put on his most serious face. Sammy studied him for a minute but it was clear—he either believed Dean, or he didn't want to chance it.

"Mac an cheese pwease!" He giggled, like it was the funniest thing ever. Sammy liked rhyming words now.

"Comin right up." Dean smiled. "It'll take a little bit cause the waters gotta boil, kay? Go play with your toys or watch some T.V."

"Can I help, Dee? Pwease?" He clenched his fists together like he was praying and thrust them out to Dean, begging.

Sammy always wanted to help in the kitchen now, which was both fun and hard because he was messy and got in the way, but sometimes Dean didn't mind it. He looked out the window again, but it was getting dark and the kids had almost all gone home for the evening. Dean smiled down at Sammy; tonight he didn't mind it. He wanted the company, and since Sammy never stopped talking now, he could try to forget about playing with the other kids.

Macaroni and cheese was always good and Dean loved it, but not as much as Sammy. He looked over at his little brother, who had cheese all over his face, even in his hair. There were stray noodles all around him, like fallen soldiers on the battlefield. Sammy was grinning, stuffing fistfuls of the stuff into his mouth. His t-shirt had crusty, dried cheese all over it, and even though Dean couldn't see to know for sure, he was pretty positive it was all over his pants too.

"Sammy, use your spoon."

Sam wrinkled his nose. He was holding a handful of macaroni up to his mouth, but paused after Dean said something to him. "Why?"

"Cause Sammy, that's what spoons are for. Animals eat with their hands, people eat with spoons."

Sammy giggled at him. "I an anlimal too, Dean!"

He shoved the fistful into his mouth, laughing. Little pieces fell out and landed on the table and floor. Dean groaned inwardly, but he didn't let Sammy know he was annoyed because he would think it was funny. And if he didn't—well, Sammy hated it when Dean was mad at him. Sometimes he even cried.

"Sam, If you don't use your spoon you can't have a cookie later."

His saucer eyes appeared again, giving Dean a puppy dog look. Dean looked away because he couldn't resist it. "Pwease, Dean? I wanna be a montey. Monteys use hands, see!" He held his hands up in the air, as if to show Dean.

"Sorry, buddy. Use your spoon or you don't get that cookie."

"You mean." Dean ignored him and Sam started using his spoon. It was hard for him to scoop the food up, Dean knew, but he was getting better at it.

After they finished eating Dean kept his promise and let Sammy have a cookie. There was only one left, and Dean really wanted it, but Sammy crammed it into his mouth before he got a chance to ask him to share. Dean was bummed because they never got cookies; Daddy said they were a waste of money, but sometimes he'd buy them anyway when Dean and Sammy were real good while he was gone. So yeah, Dean was sad, but Sammy was grinning with chocolate all over his lips, and Dean had to smile back.

"Okay Sammy, it's bath time."

"Take a baf!" Sammy squealed.

He still loved to take a bath, which Dean was grateful for because Sammy sure could get messy. Dean liked it too because now they could splash in the tub as long as he was careful and didn't get Sammy in the face. It was pretty much the same as it always was, except that now the tub was full of Sammy's dinosaur toys. Sammy loved dinosaurs right now. Sometimes when their dad was home, they'd go outside and Dean would help him dig for bones.

"Rawwwrrr...I eat you, Dee, run!"

Sammy made the dinosaur chase Dean. Dean pretended to be scared, faked a scream, and hid behind the shampoo bottle. That got Sammy laughing hysterically, which caused Dean to crack up too. They played like that until the water started to cool off, and then Dean had to get serious. Lately this was the hard part.

"I don't wanna wass hair."

"Sammy, we have to wash your hair."

"Why?"

"Cause it's dirty."

"Don't wanna."

"Come on, Sammy. Even baby dinosaurs let their brothers wash their hair."

"They don't hab hair, Dee."

_Why was this kid so smart already? _It took another twenty minutes to get Sammy to let Dean wash his hair and body off. He ended up having to wait him out, which was Dean's least favorite way. When the water started getting cold and Dean refused to warm it up, Sammy agreed to let him do it. Dean warmed the water then, washing Sammy's whole body and his hair. By the time they were done the floor was soaked, and Dean knew he'd have to wipe it up in the morning, but he was too tired right now and Sammy still wasn't ready for bed.

Once they were dried off and Dean was dressed, he helped Sammy into his pajamas. He liked to do as much of it himself as he could, but Dean still had to help him put his underwear on, because otherwise Sammy always got it twisted up.

"Open your mouth."

"Why do we have ta bruss our teef every day?"

"Because you like to eat cookies so much."

"Huh?"

"If you eat cookies and don't brush your teeth, they turn icky green and all fall out."

"Eww! You lying, Dee."

"Why do you think I brush my teeth every night?"

Sam considered this. "Otay, but can I bruss by myself?"

"Tell ya what. You brush first and let me go back over it just in case you missed something, okay?"

"Otay, Dean."

When it was finally time to go to bed, Dean remembered the mess in the kitchen. He groaned. "Lay down, Sammy. I've gotta clean up the kitchen."

"No, Dean I can't sleep wifout you."

"I'll be back in a little bit, okay?"

Those little hazel eyes filled with tears, and Dean relented. "Okay, look. You lay down on the couch while I clean up. You can see me from the living room. How does that sound?"

Dean pushed a chair up to the sink. There weren't many dishes, but they were caked with the orange cheese, crusty and dry. The table and floor were both sticky—Sammy had made sure of that. He groaned as he scrubbed them clean, throwing the dish rag into the hamper when he was done. Their dad hated a mess and Dean didn't know when he'd be home for sure, so it was important that he clean up before bed.

"Okay Sammy—"

He was sleeping, snoring lightly. Dean didn't wanna wake him, so he scooped him up, carrying him quietly to the bedroom. _Geez Sammy got heavy._ His tiny body shook when he laid Sammy down on the bed, jolting awake.

"Dee...wanna sleep wif you. Pwease?"

"Okay, Sammy."

Dean laid down beside his little brother and wrapped an arm around him, even though they were both sweating. Sammy squirmed and made a little groaning noise, obviously asleep again already. Dean knew he needed to try and go to sleep too, because Sammy never slept late and he'd want breakfast as soon as he woke up. Dad always said that Sammy ate like a little piggy now.

But it was so hot and even though Dean was tired, he couldn't stop thinking about stuff. Those kids outside were laughing so hard earlier, their smiles almost as bright as Sammy's. He wanted to go play outside with Sammy; he wanted to go play outside _without _Sammy—just for a little while. He wanted to play tag; he wanted to go roller skating; he wanted to ride a bike. But he'd never be able to, maybe not ever. And Dean guessed that was okay, because he understood why.

He still wanted his daddy to come home and smile at him, make him dinner and maybe even give him a bath like Dean gave Sammy. But Dean knew what his daddy was doing was important—it was his job now that mommy was gone, just like taking care of Sammy was Dean's job now. Daddy said that Dean's job was just as important as his, so Dean always made sure to do his best so his daddy would be proud of him and Sammy would be safe and happy. Dean squeezed him tighter. Maybe Dean couldn't do all those things that he wanted—but here, now, feeling Sam breathing beside him, he knew it was worth it.


	3. Chapter 3

They were in Massachusetts the year that Sammy turned five. It was August, but it wasn't hot—Dad said it was because they were so close to the water. Dean figured he was right, because the breeze blew cool against his skin right off the harbor as he and Sammy walked down the main strip of town. It was a small place, comfortable, full of little shops and elderly people. Dean thought it was one of the most boring towns they'd ever been too, but if it meant that he and Sammy didn't have to stay in the house the whole time they were there than he wouldn't complain.

It was also Sammy's first day of school ever and he was visibly nervous, even though he'd gabbed all night about how excited he was to finally meet some kids his own age. But now, in the sleepy morning air, he was extra quiet, the only sounds between them the birds by the bay. His palm was sweaty and it was slick against Dean's own hand, and Dean gripped it tighter, looking down at him.

"What's the matter, Sammy?"

"Can we go back home, Dee?"

Sammy rarely called him that anymore; only when he was scared, or upset, or when he'd done something he didn't want Dean to find out about. Dean stopped where they were on the sidewalk, pulling his little brother gently toward the brick buildings. Sammy looked up at him with tear-stained cheeks and bit his lip, which was slowly starting to tremble.

"Why? I thought you were excited about your first day of school."

Sammy shook his head. "Not anymore."

Dean sat down on the sidewalk and pulled Sammy into his lap. He realized it probably looked weird, but no one was out at this hour anyway and he honestly didn't care if there was. Dean's shirt soaked up some of the excess moisture when Sammy laid his head on Dean's chest, the tears seeping through the fabric and onto his skin. Dean remembered his first day of school; he was _terrified._ But it was definitely not for the reasons that Sammy was. On Dean's first day of school he cried the whole bus ride there because he was worried that Uncle Bobby wouldn't know how to take care of Sammy the right way, and that something bad might happen to him while Dean was gone.

"Why not?"

Sam shrugged. "Cause what if nobody'll play with me?"

Dean smiled; Sam's worries were so far from the anxiety that he'd experienced on his first day that it was hard to believe they were talking about the same scenario—but little Sammy was obviously scared so Dean had to pull him in closer, hugged him a little tighter. Sam's muscles relaxed a little and his breathing started to smooth out, and Dean blamed it all on Sesame Street for filling the kid's brain with unreasonable expectations about friends.

He kissed Sam on the top of the head and pulled them both to their feet. "Sammy, you're gonna have the best first day ever."

"How do you know?"

"Remember when you said you were too scared to play in the water when we went to the beach? And I told you to trust me, that you'd love it?"

"Yeah..."

"Well, Sammy, I know this is scary, but you have to trust me again. I know you'll like it. You'll have tons of other kids to play with and if it gets too bad you can have a teacher come and get me. I'll just be right down the hall."

He didn't say anything, but wiped his eyes. "Okay, Dean."

They walked the rest of the way in silence, and Sam's hand was still just as sweaty, but he wasn't crying anymore. When they got into the building Sam's grip tightened as Dean walked him to his classroom. The teacher was standing outside, greeting the parents and new children with a big smile. She gave Dean a questioning look but didn't say anything, and Dean knew it was because she was wondering where Sammy's parents were—Dean was getting used to these situations.

"Hi there! What's your name?"

Sam didn't respond, just looked down at his shoes. Dean nudged him. "Hey buddy, she asked you a question."

"Sammy," he muttered.

"Well hi, Sammy. It's very nice to meet you. Why don't you go inside and hang up your backpack, and then you can play with the other kids until we get started."

Sammy turned and squeezed Dean around the legs, his head resting on Dean's stomach. "Promise you'll be here to get me when it's over?"

"Yeah, Sammy, I promise I'll be here. You know I will."

Sammy nodded and walked inside slowly, like he was marching on death row. Dean was slightly worried but he had to smile. Sammy was dramatic, way more than Dean _ever_ was. But Sammy was also going to have a blast—lately all he talked about was meeting a friend, and now he was gonna get that opportunity.

After school Dean walked to Sammy's classroom and grinned when he saw him talking to another little boy. He was showing Sammy his backpack, his hands moving excitedly as he no doubt explained how awesome he thought E.T. was. Sammy was nodding his head intently, listening to everything the other boy said, smiling quietly. He didn't notice when Dean walked up and put his hand on his shoulder.

"Dean!" Sam turned around and waved goodbye to his new friend. "This is my big brother, Dean. He's here to get me."

"Okay, bye Sammy!"

"See ya, Mark!"

"So, how was your first day?" he asked, taking Sam by the hand.

"You were right, Dean. It was great! I'm gonna learn all my numbers and how to read and stuff. But I already know my letters cause you showed me and some of the other kids didn't," he said, clearly proud of himself.

"See, told you. I'm always right, squirt. Remember that."

"Shut up," he grinned. "Oh, and one of my new friends knows karate. Cool, huh? Do you think I could do karate?"

"I dunno, Sammy, you're pretty scrawny."

He gave Dean a dirty look, but it didn't last. They walked home like that, Sammy gushing nonstop about his first day of school and all the new friends he met, how he liked his teacher and that they had a pet turtle—which led to the question of 'why can't we have a pet turtle?' and on and on.

"Hey Dean, did you make any new friends?"

"Sure, lots of 'em," he lied.

Dean thought about his first day of school, and how he hadn't really talked to anybody; he wasn't sure how to relate to other kids. They spent their free time playing games and eating candy. Dean on the hand, he spent his free time taking care of his little brother, running laps, and, when his dad was home, practicing his shooting on old bottles. Sammy hated when they did that because he wasn't allowed to do it yet. To keep him quiet Dean bought him a squirt gun to 'practice' with. That satisfied him for the time being, and it kept him from getting lectured by their dad when he repeatedly questioned why he wasn't allowed to do what Dean did.

Sam slung his backpack and jacket on the chair when he came in, immediately running toward the television. He liked to watch Mr. Peabody and Sherman. Dean thought it was stupid, and he'd said so a few times, but he didn't have the heart to make Sammy change the channel. But seriously, what kid prefers that weirdo show to something cool like G.I. Joe? Sammy did.

"What do you want? Peanut butter and jelly or a T.V. Dinner?"

"Will you make me a grilled cheese?"

Dean sighed. "Not tonight, Sammy. I have some homework I need to get done, plus Dad wants me to run a few laps."

"But Dean...I really want one."

"Sorry, kiddo. And don't whine—you know Dad hates it when you whine."

"Dad's not here." He grumbled. "And I don't whine."

Dean rolled his eyes, mostly because Sammy was the king of whining right now. "Yes, you do princess."

"I'll make my own grilled cheese."

"No you won't—stay outta the kitchen. I don't want to be homeless till Dad gets back because you burned the place down."

"You cooked when you were my age."

"I did a lot of things when I was your age."

"I know, that's my point."

"It's perks of being the big brother." But in fact it didn't _feel_ much like perks to Dean sometimes.

Sam groaned, muttering something about how terrible it was to be the youngest. "I'm not hungry, then."

"Sammy, you have to eat something."

He sighed, a look on his face like he'd just been denied parole. "Okay, Dean. I'll have a T.V. dinner."

Sam could already be argumentative, but he usually caved if Dean kept an even tone with him. The problem was that when Sammy caved, Dean caved too—those big hazel eyes could make him give Sammy anything when they welled up with sadness. If Sammy had thrown a fit, he would've gotten a damn T.V. dinner; but since he was so sullen and cute, Dean was gonna make him that stupid grilled cheese, even though he really, really didn't want to.

Dean glanced into the living room. Sammy was watching that silly cartoon, a hint of defeat on his face. Dean rolled his eyes—usually Sam would demand to help in the kitchen, and he was getting better at not getting in Dean's way as much, but now he was mad. So Dean left him alone—he didn't like it when Sammy got near the stove anyway, ever since that one time he burned his fingers reaching for a hot pan when Dean wasn't looking.

"Dinner, Sammy."

Sam sulked to the table until he saw the sandwich sitting there, steam rolling off the bread. He looked up at Dean then, his smile bright, like Dean had just gotten him the pet he'd always wanted or something, and Dean smiled back, unable to feel any more annoyance at his little brother. Sammy ran up to him and circled his little arms around Dean. Dean hugged him back.

"Okay, enough hugging. Eat, midget."

"Thanks, Dean!"

"Yeah, yeah."

Dean made himself a T.V. dinner. He slid into a chair beside Sammy, eating the mashed potatoes and corn with a grin on his face. He was thankful Sammy wasn't so messy at dinner anymore. Sometimes his face would get a little dirty, but at least everything stayed on his plate now—for the most part. Dean was amazed he could keep his food in his mouth, since Sammy was talking the entire time he ate, relaying to Dean really important things, like how a little girl peed her pants in class because she was so nervous, and how he was the only kid whose big brother would be caught dead walking them to class, and how everyone else was so jealous.

Dean smiled. "Okay, Sammy. I gotta run a few laps. I want you to make sure the salt lines are good and don't move from that couch until I get back. Understand?"

"What if I have to go to the bathroom?"

"Go now."

"I don't have to go now."

"Sammy—please be good while I'm gone. I won't be long, okay?"

"Okay, Dean."

Dean waited until he heard Sam pour salt along the door frame before he left. He liked running; when he ran he could pretend he didn't have any responsibilities, and he could be alone for a little while—which, even though it made him feel a little guilty, he liked it sometimes. He didn't need to talk; he could just listen to the crunch of the gravel beneath his worn-out sneakers, the thud of his heart inside his chest, and his breathing, controlled and steady, as the houses blurred around him.

When he got back Sammy was sitting in the living room floor, playing with Dean's old army men. He had them set up in rows, facing each other, poised for battle. He looked up when Dean came in and smiled brightly. Dean wiped the sweat off his forehead, re-laid a salt line, and sat down on the couch. He wanted to get his homework done asap—it wasn't much, but homework always sucked.

"Will you play with me, Dean?"

"In a little bit."

"But my men are going to war _now_. I need backup. You have to be the bad guys, kay?"

"Go put the dishes in the sink and wipe off the table while you wait on me. I'll be done in a minute."

Sam stomped his foot and crossed his arms. "This is real important, Dean. I can do that stuff later."

Dean arched his eyebrow. "Sam, you're old enough to clean up a little. I said I'd play with you when I'm done."

He opened his mouth like he might protest, but Dean gave him _the look_, which was a new face he'd developed when Sam turned four. It usually worked, though Dean didn't really know why—it wasn't like he ever followed it up with anything—but he wasn't complaining. He just planned to milk it while it lasted, since he had no idea how long it would.

Sam sulked into the kitchen. He made sure to be extra loud and whiney, but Dean just ignored him. Sammy would get over it as soon as Dean started playing with him. Besides—it wasn't like Dean _wanted _to do his homework. He had to, or their dad would get a phone call and Dean would get—well, Dean didn't like thinking about what he'd get. His dad said they had to keep a low profile, and that mean not getting noticed for dumb things like not doing homework.

Since Sammy was so cranky he was deliberately slow, which gave Dean plenty of time to finish up. He sat down in the floor next to the 'bad guys,' and started setting up more men. Dean was right; when Sammy came back he already had a smile on his face at the sight of Dean ready to play.

Dean liked these times with his little brother; they were easy and they were fun, and he knew that as Sammy got older they would become few and further between, because Dad didn't expect just Dean to become skilled and practiced—he'd expect it from Sammy too. Sometimes that made Dean sad to think about. There was something dark between him and his father, a secret that they loathed, that ate them up at night. But Sammy didn't share it yet. And because he didn't, Dean could be different around him. There was no need to be sad, or angry, or scared around Sammy—because Sammy wouldn't understand it even if he was.

"Dean, you have to die—everybody knows the bad guys always lose."

"That's not always true, Sammy."

He said it before he could stop himself, and the bitter truth of it made his mouth dry. He pictured his mom on the ceiling, something he hadn't done in a long time, and it made him want to cry. But Sammy didn't seem to notice, just arched an eyebrow at Dean, and sighted every cartoon or movie he'd seen as evidence to back up his point. Dean didn't want to be right about it anyway, and there was no need for Sammy to know that Dean had a point, so he conceded that his brother was right. Sammy was pleased to say the least.

"Okay, dude. Clean this up and I'll go run some bath water."

Sam sighed. "Okay...will you make lots of bubbles?"

"Yep."

Dean still loved taking a bath with Sammy. Now mostly because he knew he wouldn't be able to do it for much longer, because they were getting older. Their dad didn't really like them doing it right now, but he let them anyway—Dean thought it was mostly because he didn't want to wash Sammy's hair. Dad always managed to get the soap in his eyes and Sammy would cry, and so he always wanted Dean to do it. Dean didn't mind it so much.

They set some army men that Sammy had smuggled into the bathroom along the edge of the tub. Dean threw a 'grenade' and made them fly into the water, because they made little plopping sounds and splashed them in the face. Sammy _loved_ it. Sometimes they would have contests at who could hold their breath the longest—Dean always won and he told Sammy it was because he was the biggest, and the biggest always wins. Sammy would argue that one day he might be the biggest, but Dean would just laugh and tell him no way.

"Okay, Sammy, let's wash your hair."

"I can do it, Dean."

"Sure, just let me help, okay?"

"Dean, I'm a big kid now. I go to _school_."

"I know dude," he said, as he squirted a dollop of shampoo into Sammy's hand.

Sam lifted his hand up and a thing, gooey line of it ran down his arm. He glanced at Dean, perplexed, but unwilling to ask for help out loud. Dean rolled his eyes and scraped it off Sammy's body and plopped it into his hair. He nodded, indicating to his little brother to start rubbing it in. Sammy grinned because he was still doing it mostly by himself. Dean scrubbed the parts he missed, and rinsed it out. At least Sammy didn't fight him on washing his hair lately. Ugh, the terrible threes and fours.

Sammy insisted on washing his body alone, and Dean let him—for the most part. He wouldn't get behind his ears or his face if it was up to him, but Dean made sure it got done. When they got out Dean wrapped a towel around himself and held one open for Sammy, who walked into it shivering. Sammy could dry himself off now, but still needed help with his hair—their dad was threatening to make him cute it but he hadn't yet, because every time he mentioned it Sammy put on his saddest face. It was like kryptonite for both of them.

They put on their pajamas—Sammy's once belonged to Dean, and Dean's once belonged to whoever had donated them to the army surplus store. But Sammy liked them because they had pictures of the ninja turtles on them, which was probably one of the only cool shows he liked to watch. Sammy was kind of a dork, after all.

"Make sure you brush behind your teeth too, Sammy."

"I know, Dean," he grumbled. "I don't like this toothpaste."

"Too bad."

"It's gross...can we get a different kind? I'll brush my teeth then."

"Sammy, you know we can't afford it. Dad buys whatever's on sale."

"But Tommy has Thundercat toothpaste."

"Sorry, dude. It's what we got. Now hold out your toothbrush."

"I can do it, Dean. Let me try."

"No, I don't feel like cleaning it up when you squirt too much."

"I won't, just let me do it."

Sammy was trying so hard to be independent these days. Dean hated it—he wasn't sure if it was because he felt like Sammy didn't need him as much, or if it was because it was more trouble than if Dean just did it for him. But Sammy was looking up at him again, pouting just enough to be cute, so Dean relented.

"Okay, but don't make a mess."

He grinned and grabbed the tube from Dean's hands, eagerly opening it. "Uh, oh."

Sammy's eyes grew wide as he looked back from Dean to his hand. A glob of toothpaste dropped from his brush to the floor, making a _plop_ as it landed in a little puddle. Sammy had toothpaste on his fingers too. He just sat there staring at it, biting his lip. Dean resisted the urge to yell at him, knowing that Sammy didn't deal very well when their dad yelled. Instead he just sighed and grabbed a rag.

"Sorry, Dee."

"It's okay, Sammy."

After Dean cleaned everything up they finished brushing their teeth. He ushered Sammy into the bedroom, eager for him to go to sleep so that he could go watch some T.V. If he tried to do it while his little brother was awake, Sammy would either throw a fit about being big enough to stay up too, or he would wine that he was too scared to sleep alone.

"Will you read me a story? I got to get a book from the library."

"It's time for us to go to bed."

"Please, Dee? You've never read me a story before."

He knew he wasn't really going to say no, even though he was going to miss Saved by the Bell. He nodded a 'yes,' and Sammy jumped off the bed, grinning widely. Dean smiled when he saw what book Sammy had. It was Harold and the Purple Crayon. Dean _loved _that book when he was a kid. Harold could do whatever he wanted—all he had to do was draw it. When Dean was Sammy's age he'd wished he was Harold. Sammy crawled into bed beside Dean and handed him the book, resting his head on Dean's chest as he did.

"One day, Harold decided to go for a walk in the moonlight—"

Dean got to page six before he heard Sammy's breathing getting deeper. When he looked down his little brother was out, a little slither of drool on the corner of his mouth. Dean shook his head and smiled, wiping the drool away with his finger. He decided maybe he wouldn't watch Saved by the Bell after all. He didn't want to wake Sammy, and it was a good excuse for them to not have to sleep in separate beds. Even though Dean was a big kid, he still missed his mom at night sometimes, especially when their dad was gone for more than a couple of days.

He sat the book down on the nightstand and flicked off the light, snuggling into the covers. Sammy's head was still resting in the crook of his arm and he liked it. He could smell the shampoo in his hair every time he breathed in, and it made him feel a little better. It wasn't so lonely with a warm body next to him. He also secretly relished their closeness, knowing that sooner or later Sammy would get too big for this kind of thing. But right now he was still little, and Dean was going to enjoy it while it lasted.


	4. Chapter 4

One of the longest times they ever spent alone when they were little kids was in Florida. Their dad was hunting a demon—one he thought might have some answers about their mother and, unwilling to chance missing a possible opportunity, he left them for over a month.

Normally he would've taken them to their Uncle Bobby's; but Dad said there wasn't time or the trail would run cold. So he rented them a little house just outside of Orlando, gave Dean enough money to cover the rent for two months—as well as some 'emergency funds,' stocked the fridge, drilled each of them on the rules (separately, because even though Sammy didn't know it, they followed different ones), and headed out.

Dean was eleven and Sammy was seven. And, as far as Dean was concerned, this was Sammy's last year being just a kid; though he didn't know it at the time. Later that year—on Christmas—Sammy would find out what their father really did for a living, and things would never be the same after that—not between any of them.

Seven was a big age for Sammy; their dad started his physical training—and left Dean to make sure it got done. Sammy was also learning how to take apart and clean weapons, even though he wasn't allowed to shoot them yet. (Which, by the way, was a tantrum trigger because Sammy never forgot anything, and he knew that their dad had let Dean start shooting when he was six). This annoyed Dean because Sammy didn't even really _like_ shooting; he just didn't want to be excluded from something he knew Dean was allowed to do.

Seven was also a year that Dean would keep Sammy close to him; ever since the incident with the shtriga—which had only been about seven of months ago—he didn't let his little brother out of his sight for very long at all. There was no way he was going to risk Sammy getting hurt again, by anything. And there was no way he'd ever disappoint or disobey his father again by blatantly disregarding orders. He'd never forgive himself for what happened to Sammy—and if anything else ever did, he didn't think he'd be able to deal with it.

"I don't wanna run laps—I wanna go to Jake's house."

"Come on, Sammy, you know we have to do this."

_Dad wants you to train because he doesn't think I can protect you anymore._ Dean knew that wasn't true, but oh God it _felt _like the truth; especially when their dad looked at him, like he was the biggest disappointment in the world. Well, never again. Dean would never let his father down again, and he'd never let Sammy get that close to danger again. Never.

"But _why_, Dean? None of the other kids in my class have to." Sammy hated working out. He hated running. So far, he hated everything that Dean had come to know as part of his regular routine—and their father _did not _approve.

"How do you know?"

"Because when I mentioned it they thought I was a freak."

"Sammy," Dean ruffled his hair, "you are a freak."

Sam gave him a dirty look, shoving him gently. "Can I go to Jake's house after we're done?"

"Is your homework finished?"

Dean didn't know why he was even asking—it was like the first thing Sam did when he came home. His little brother actually _enjoyed_ doing homework. Dean didn't have the heart to tell him that no matter how much he liked it, it didn't matter; their futures were already planned out for them and there was nothing they could do about it.

Dean remembered once when he was nine and an army man came to their school and was talking to them about joining the air force, and Dean was really excited about it. He remembered thinking about how cool it would be to fly an airplane. He remembered mentioning it to their dad. He remembered their dad telling him that he couldn't do it.

When Dean asked why, their dad said it was because they had a responsibility to help people in other ways—that Dean would have to go into the family business, because it was the right thing to do; that he knew it wasn't fair, but because of what had happened to their mom, Dean had to see the bigger picture.

Dean had initially been pretty upset; sad and mad, because their dad was right—it _wasn't _fair. But eventually, after he thought about it, he understood—at least enough to let it drop. Besides, you just didn't argue with John Winchester. Dean wasn't really mad at his dad; he remembered what it was like for both of them after his mom died, and how hurt his dad had been. He also realized just how vulnerable Sammy was now, and if this was the only way to set things right, protect his brother, and make his dad proud of him, he would do it. It seemed like a small price to pay, even though it sucked.

"Yes, Dean—you know my homework's always done."

They stretched, did their basic workout—which winded Sam pretty easily right now, so Dean went slower than he was used to. Dean told himself that it was because Sammy was new to it, but he couldn't shake the feeling that it was because Sammy's endurance had gone down since the 'incident.'

They started running; having a running partner was new to Dean. He was used to the quiet, calm air, nothing to do but think—that was before Sammy. Sam wanted to spend the entire time talking; talking about school, talking about how much he hated moving, talking about his new friends. Dean mostly just listened, commenting when necessary, but usually just nodding. Sammy didn't seem to notice, really.

"So can I go?"

"Are his parents home?"

"I dunno," Sam answered honestly, already breathing heavily.

Dean considered it. "If his parents are home, yes. If not, then no. But he can come over to our place." Dean pictured the shtriga's hands around Sammy's little body, its mouth open wide, sucking the life force out of his little brother slowly.

"But Dean...I'm old enough."

"Sammy, you're seven."

"Seven's old enough."

"No, it's not."

"Dean—"

"Do I need to call Dad so you can ask him?" Typically Dean didn't need to pull that card—in fact, Sammy probably listened to Dean _better_ than he listened to their father. But for some reason just the threat to call Dad was pretty effective these days.

He could hear the scowl in Sam's voice. "No."

Dad probably wouldn't have even considered Sammy going at all. For some reason, his dad was having a difficult time knowing how to treat his youngest. Dean had been forced to mature earlier than normal, so it wasn't like he had another kid to compare Sammy to. This meant that Sammy was often babied more than Dean had been—on the other hand, their dad didn't know how a kid his age was supposed to act, so he put a lot of restrictions on Sammy's activities—or he let Dean decide.

When they finished running, they went home and Sam called his friend. Turned out the kid's parents weren't home, but they were perfectly fine letting their seven year old stay by his self. Dean thought it was crazy until he remembered when he was seven and how often he'd been without supervision, but it seemed different somehow when it applied to him. He didn't remember being that small and vulnerable when he was seven.

"He says he can't come over because his parents wouldn't know where he was."

"Sorry, Sammy."

"It's not fair. Dean, he's got a new puppy," Sam pouted.

Dean ignored Sam's inevitable whining. _It's not fair_ was becoming one of his little brother's favorite things to say. Only, Sammy had no idea what _not fair _really meant yet, and it was starting to cause some problems between their dad and Sammy, but Dean always just ignored it. He thought about telling their dad to do the same, but Dean knew there was no way his temper would allow it.

"You need to get cleaned up anyway, dude. You stink from the run."

Sam gave him a dirty look, his bangs wet from sweat. He wiped them out of his eyes with the back of his hand. "No you do."

"I'm gonna take a shower, then I'll get you a bath ready. Watch T.V. or something till I get out, kay?"

"Fine," he grumbled.

It didn't take Dean long to shower—baths always took a long time because he was playing with or helping Sammy get washed off. Now that it was just him, it didn't take long at all—but it _was _more boring. Even so, Dean liked taking showers; it made him feel a little more grown up.

After he was finished and dressed, Dean ran Sammy some bathwater, making sure it wasn't too hot or too cold. Sam had started insisting, about three weeks ago, that he was big enough to take a bath on his own; their dad agreed. Dean was bummed by it a little, but he'd never admit it out loud. He acted relieved in front of the two of them when the decision was made, like that was what he'd wanted all along anyway.

When Dean got out, Sammy was sitting in front of a television that was turned off, his nose deep in a book. He rolled his eyes, knowing Sam wouldn't see him. His little brother was _such_ a dork. Still, maybe this was a good thing; maybe Dad would let Sammy be do all the research and then Dean wouldn't have to worry about him going out on a hunt and getting hurt. Dean knew that he and his dad could handle it without endangering Sammy, but he also knew he had a better chance of raising his mom from the dead.

"Water's ready, kiddo."

Sam grinned, held one finger up to indicate he needed another minute, and continued reading. Dean smiled back—apparently he wasn't mad at Dean anymore. When Sam was done he dog eared the page he was on, dropped the book onto the couch, and grabbed his Batman, Robin, and Joker action figures. Dean told him to make sure he left the door open; Sam did, but rolled his eyes.

While his little brother was in the tub Dean decided he'd make dinner. He looked through the freezer, happy to see that his dad had bought them a couple of frozen pizzas. Sammy was going through some weird phase right now anyway where he said he wanted everything Dean was eating, even if he didn't really like it. Their dad said it was normal, but Dean thought it was annoying.

He popped the pizza in the oven and set a timer, listening every so often to the sound of Sammy threatening the Joker with a _pow_. The couch was comfortable but it smelled weird, and Dean was careful not to lean to far back into it or stick his fingers between the cushions. Who knew what was lurking there? Instead he flipped on the T.V., smiling when he found one of his favorite Clint Eastwood shows on.

"Dean, I'm ready!"

Dean didn't say anything, just checked the pizza and made his way to the bathroom. Sammy was still playing with his toys when Dean walked in. He grinned at Dean, a gap in his teeth from where he'd lost one a couple nights ago. Dean smiled back. He was remembering how happy Sam had been when he'd found a quarter under his pillow the next morning, thinking that the tooth fairy had left him money—nope, just Dean. Dean would tell him there was no tooth fairy, of course, but not until he ran out of quarters.

He put a drop of shampoo on Sam's head and watched as Sammy rubbed it in, trying his best to get it everywhere. Dean waited till he was finished, then went back over the spots he'd missed, while Sam yammered on about how Batman was the coolest superhero ever cause he was so smart and fast. Dean thought Superman was better cause he was the strongest, but he didn't feel like arguing his point right now.

Sam closed his eyes and mouth and leaned his head back, like he'd done it a million times before—and they had. To Dean, giving Sammy a bath was as routine as tying his own shoes or cleaning a gun. It was comfortable and easy, and Dean didn't really mind doing it.

"Get dried off, I'm gonna go check on the pizza."

"Cool, pizza!"

They rarely got pizza; most of the time they cycled through cereal, T.V. dinners, spaghetti, or grilled cheese. And, being seven, pizza was one of Sammy's favorite foods. Dean cut the pizza and dropped a couple of pieces onto their plates. He frowned when he saw the big slices of onion dotting the surface—Sammy hated onions. Dean started picking them off both his and Sam's pieces. Dean liked onions, but Sammy wouldn't eat if they were on his pizza—but he'd try to force himself to if he saw Dean eating them.

Sammy came in a couple minutes later, plopping himself down onto the chair. He glanced at his apple juice and frowned. "Do we have chocolate milk?"

"Nope. Besides, fruit's good for you."

"Apple juice isn't fruit, dumbass," but Sam was grinning. He'd heard Dean cuss a million times now and loved to do it when Dad wasn't around. Sometimes Dean let him, but he didn't want it to become a habit so young. Dad would be pissed.

"Watch your mouth. Just eat your pizza." Sam did. Dean loved that Sammy was pretty much never messy anymore when they ate, because it made his job so much easier.

"Dean, can I go to the museum?"

"Huh?"

He took a huge bite and began again, his mouth full. "With the school. It's a field trip and it's free. You just need to sign a permission slip."

_You mean Dad needs to sign it,_ Dean thought. The older Sammy got the easier some things got; like giving him a bath or making sure he ate his dinner. But, some things got harder; like keeping under the radar at school when Sammy had permission slips or report cards to sign, or when teachers wanted to meet their dad in person for whatever stupid reason. Dean was learning how to copy his dad's signature, and he was even getting pretty good at it, but he couldn't go to meetings for his dad—instead, Dean learned to make up lies for why he wouldn't be able to make it.

"Yeah, I'll sign it before bed."

"Awesome!"

After dinner Sammy helped clear the table and then ran out of the room as fast as he could manage, murmuring something about homework that he 'forgot' to do, but Dean knew he just didn't want to help do the dishes. The little shit. Dean let it slide, because he was letting a lot of things slide this year, because of the immense guilt he couldn't shake. Part of it was because of the way his dad still looked at him—like he'd failed at his one responsibility. And part of it was Dean trying to make it up to Sam, even though his brother didn't remember anything about it.

When Dean was finished he found Sammy in their bedroom, a blanket stretched from the bed to the dresser. It was suspended, books and shoes piled on top of the edges to keep it from caving in. Dean grinned and peeked his head under the 'fort.'

"Dean! Hurry up and get in here. We're camping."

"Where's the marshmallows, munckin?"

Sammy wrinkled his eyebrows, grabbed a sock, rolled it up, and handed it to Dean. "Here ya go."

"Gee thanks, dude." But Dean took it anyway because he knew it would make his brother happy. Sammy had the biggest imagination right now.

"Oh yeah, before I forget—"

Sammy crawled out of the tent, leaving Dean alone with all the 'marshmallows,' and several toys , which Dean assumed were his 'camping buddies.' Dean couldn't wait till Sammy got a little older and he could use this kind of thing as ammunition against him.

Sam came running back a second later with a pen and a slip of paper, holding it out to Dean. Dean took it and signed it without a second thought. His signature was pretty good by now—at least he hadn't been questioned about it the past two years. Sammy looked up at him with bright eyes, smiling. Dean noticed the red streak crusted against the corner of Sammy's lip. He just rolled his eyes, got some spit on his thumb and rubbed it off before Sammy could jerk away in protest.

"Eww, sick!" He wiped his face.

"Learn how to use a napkin, dude."

"That's gross, Dean."

They played in the tent for a couple hours, till the sun slipped past the horizon, and Sammy's eyes started to droop. Sammy begged him to play for just a little longer, but Dean shook his head no. Every time he let Sam stay up past his bedtime he was grouchy in the morning, and Dean didn't wanna put up with it.

They brushed their teeth side by side, Sammy straining to look into the mirror. Dean laughed at him and made short jokes. Sam grumbled and made dumb blonde jokes. Dean said they only applied to women, which shut him up because Sammy didn't know the first thing about girls; he was surrounded by men.

"Can we sleep in the fort?"

"You can."

"Come on, Dee, sleep in the fort with me. It'll be like real camping."

The look. That stupid look. "Okay, Sammy."

They piled up pillows and blankets, making a makeshift bed on the floor. Sam pulled out a copy of Nancy Drew and insisted Dean listen while he read it. Dean agreed, for two reasons—reading would put Sammy to sleep, and Sam was ridiculously proud of his new reading skills. Dean made fun of him because Nancy Drew was a girl, but Sam ignored him, declaring Nancy Drew could beat Dean's ass. Dean huffed at that, telling Sammy he'd beat _his_ ass, but there was no real truth behind it and Sam knew it.

Dean grabbed the supplies, piling pillows and blankets to make a pallet for them. Sam leaned into him, reading the book to Dean proudly. He smiled at his little brother as he Sam's eyes started to droop. It didn't take long before Sammy stopped reading, his breath coming out in even puffs against Dean's chest.

He snuck out of the fort and grabbed the salt, making a circle around them. There was a time when he would've been happy that Sammy fell asleep so he could go watch T.V., but now there was no way he'd leave his side. Dean curled up next to him, draping an arm over his chest. Sammy smiled in his sleep and Dean grinned back.

It was dark except for Sammy's flashlight, and Dean knew he needed to turn it off, but ever since the shtriga, and for the first time since he was four years old, he was afraid of the dark again. Sure, he knew there were evil things out there; he watched his mother deep fried to a crisp on the ceiling by something that was pure evil; he heard his dad talk about the things he hunted that were pure evil; he saw the scratches and bruises and claw marks that his dad said were given to him by something that was pure evil. But, until the shtriga, he'd never _seen_ a pure evil creature with his own two eyes.

Yeah, monsters were real. He'd known that for a long time now; but there was a difference is knowing it but never seeing it. Now he saw it all the time; clawing in the back of his brain—monsters—ones that would try to come and take Sammy from him. He squeezed his little brother closer to him. No way anything would ever hurt his little brother again, because no matter what, he'd make sure of that


	5. Chapter 5

**Thanks for reading! Sorry it took so long for the update!**

* * *

It was 1992, the middle of winter, and they were deep in the heart of Alabama, holed up in a crappy little motel room that didn't even have a working T.V. If Dean jiggled the antenna just right they could get one channel, and it was a stupid religious one with some pastor talking to a crowd of people about salvation and the love of Jesus Christ.

Dean just rolled his eyes because the night before, Sammy had seemed to be halfway interested in it. He wanted to tell his little brother that it was all a load of bullshit, that there was no such thing as a greater good or a God or even angels—just evil and chaos; but when he looked at Sam's-still-sort-of-innocent face, he couldn't bring himself to do it.

1992—Dean would remember that year for a lot of reasons; it was the year he did his first salt and burn by himself—well, almost—Dad still supervised; the year he broke his shooting record during target practice; and the year he kissed three girls in the same town; but most importantly, it was the one year he felt like Sam's hero. Sure, Sam had always looked up to him and would for many years to come, but this year was still special. Anything Dean did that year was awesome, anything he said taken as fact, and anywhere he went Sam was right behind him.

It wasn't clear to him then, but looking back he realized that Sam's devotion was probably a combination of several things; Sam was starting to think of Dad as a prison warden or drill sergeant instead of a father; Dean was becoming his cool, teenage brother—who let him get away with just the right amount of stuff; and their dad hadn't started comparing Sam's ideals and actions to Dean's yet.

"Not bad, Sammy. Let's try it again. This time try to remember not to leave yourself open, even if ya think you've got the upper hand."

"Got it."

It was just past Christmas. Dean was one month away from being fourteen and he'd hit his first big growth spurt, giving him several _more _inches on Sam. It made sparring with his brother seem a little uneven, but he figured it wasn't much different than Dean sparring with their dad. He went easier on Sam than their father had gone on him, but he didn't tell either of them that—Dad would be mad because Dean was 'babying' Sammy again, and Sam would be mad because Dean was 'treating him like a little kid'—which, in Dean's opinion, Sam _was_ a little kid.

Sam was a quick learner though—at pretty much anything he ever tried. Dean figured it was a combination of how smart, stubborn, and focused he was. It also didn't hurt that everything he did now he wanted Dean to see and applaud him for, which didn't bother Dean at all, really. In fact he sort of loved it, but he tried to redirect Sammy to Dad when he was home because of the face that their father made; Dean wouldn't call it _sad_, exactly, more like resigned, but Dean still hated it.

"I did it! Did you see? Well of course you saw..."

Dean smiled. "Yeah, Sammy, I saw. Nice job, dude. You'll have to show Dad your badass right hook."

Sam just grinned, soaking in the praise. Their dad would be proud of Sam for practicing, but Dean could just hear him picking at some of the mistakes his little brother had made. Sam would take it personally and probably sulk because it'd hurt his feelings, and Dad would be oblivious because Dean took criticism so well and he'd just assume Sam did too.

It wasn't to be mean, really. It was just that he was so preoccupied with 'the job,' that he wouldn't notice. Even if he did, Dean was pretty sure it'd just cause an argument because he just wanted them to be the best; it was the only way they'd be safe. So Dean would make sure Sam had it one hundred percent before he'd let him show their dad.

They had plenty of time for Sam to perfect it; their dad was away on yet another hunting trip, which wasn't unusual. There was a clear pattern; the older they got, the more time their dad spent hunting and training, and less time staying home, with them. This time he said it was going to be a quick one, so he didn't bother getting them an apartment, just shuffled them into the first motel they saw when they got into town. Dean was fine with that; Alabama _sucked_, except for the fact that the girl's accents were kinda cute.

He'd actually wanted to go with their dad but he figured he should stay behind this time; Sammy wouldn't admit it, but he was still needy from the first time Dean went with Dad. As soon as they'd gotten back Dean had found himself with an armful of Sammy, and he'd been a little clingy ever since. When Dean said he was staying this time around their dad gave Dean 'the look,' which meant he didn't approve, not really, but it wasn't important enough to push it.

Dean's excuse had been that he wanted to make sure he didn't have to miss school in case the hunt ran longer than expected. The three of them knew it was crap, but luckily Sam didn't push either—which was exactly how Dean knew for sure it was the right decision; normally Sammy would accuse Dean of infantilizing him. But this time he'd visibly sighed with relief, and he'd been stuck like superglue go Dean ever since.

Dean ruffled Sam's hair, not at all eager to do what he had to do next. "I'll be back in a few hours, Sam. You know the drill."

"Wait, where are you goin?" He was a little breathless, sweat dripping down his forehead because of the sparring session. He wiped it away with the back of his hand and continued to stare up at Dean.

"I got a couple of things I need to do—like get dinner for you."

"I'll come too."

Sam was across the room and grabbing his sneakers. "Not this time, dude."

Sam paused but didn't drop the shoe, just held it up to his foot, considering. The look he gave Dean was, at this point, perfectly patented and ridiculously sad and cute at the same time. "Why not?"

Dean sighed. He didn't have a good lie for this and he hate lying to Sam anyway. "Because, Sammy..." Sam just looked at him, expectantly. Dean figured he should probably just tell Sam the truth, but for some reason he didn't want to.

"Why, Dean?" He repeated.

"Okay, here's the deal. I need to get some money before I can get us food, okay?"

Sam stared at him with the same face, but cocked an eyebrow slightly. Dean tried to keep this stuff to himself, he really did. It was just easier to let Sammy think that everything was taken care of, because honestly it was—Dean always took care of it. The hunt their dad was on was already taking longer than expected; it was supposed to be two days max, and it was already bordering on four. Dad had left them enough food for three days and pretty much no money because he hadn't intended to be gone long. He hadn't even left them any emergency funds. Dean was trying his best not to worry, because honestly this wasn't the first time, but it still made him uneasy.

It just happened sometimes; it was just that Sam didn't know it. Dean was good at keeping his extracurricular money-making activities a secret. He usually accomplished it by cutting class or going out at lunch, times when Sam was otherwise occupied. He was kinda stuck right now—he didn't wanna hurt Sam's feelings by saying he just didn't want him there because that wasn't true anyway, but he also didn't want Sam to be there in case things went south. It wouldn't be the first time he'd been punched in the face over a pool game, but that didn't mean he wanted Sam to see it or risk his brother being sucked into a fight with older kids.

He sighed—truth. "Look, I'm gonna go hustle some pool."

"Hustle pool...why?" Sam said slowly, like he didn't understand or there was a crucial piece missing to this puzzle.

"Come on, Sammy you're smart. We need food—that costs money. So I'm gonna go get us some money."

Sam looked unsatisfied with the answer but didn't say anything. Instead, he started putting on his shoes again. "Sam, you're not going. You heard what I said."

"But Dean I—"

"No. That's it—end of discussion. I won't have you getting hurt, Sam. It'll probably be fine, but in case things go bad I don't want you there. Stay here and do your homework."

"I don't have homework—I already did it."

Dean sighed. Of course he did. "Read then...or build a snowman."

The look Sam gave him then could've melted metal. "But what if you get hurt? I'd need to be there to help you...or help you fight if you get in trouble."

"Sam," it came out a little harsher than he'd intended, and Sam flinched. He felt bad immediately and softened his voice. "I know you wanna help, but this isn't the first time I've had to do this and it won't be the last. Don't worry about it, okay? I'll be back in a couple hours."

He ignored Sam's glare, muttered a 'bye,' and waited until he heard Sam lay the salt line at the door before he left. He wanted to make sure Sam was safe and that he didn't follow Dean, which was total Sam thing to do. Dean hated leaving him behind, especially since he was probably going to stay worried, but really he didn't have another choice.

Dean was lucky; there was one pool hall in the entire town, and it was only about a two mile walk from the motel. He really wished they had busses in this town, but then again it wasn't like he had the money for the fare, so it was just as well. Dean hoped that there would be people there—it was shitty outside and he wasn't sure that the kids in this town understood what fun was; it just seemed like the go-to-church-come-home-and-tip-some-cows-and-call-it-a-day kind of place.

Luckily there were people there—a few teens his age and one young adult duo in the corner of the room. He didn't exactly clean house, but he didn't do too badly either—one hundred bucks. Dean could've stretched it for at least a week if he wouldn't have had to pay for another night at the hotel. Still, it was enough to feed them for at least two more days so Dean would take it.

He shivered, pulling his jacket tighter around him. He didn't have a coat anymore, he'd outgrown it, and he didn't want to ask his dad for another one yet. It'd been a tough year for them and he figured he could deal with it for a little while longer. But it was starting to get dark and the sun was going down, the snow falling briskly. Dean knew he needed to hurry, or Sammy would freak out—plus he was freezing.

"Dean! It's snowing like crazy out there and you've been gone forever."

"Chill, Sammy."

"Did you have ta fight?"

Dean grinned. "No, just had to win this time."

Outside the window Dean saw that Sam was right, it was snowing hard. He hadn't noticed it so much on the way home because he was preoccupied with getting back quickly. Well, shit. How was he supposed to get them dinner now? There was no way they could go out in that weather, and Sam would flip if he left without him again.

"Did you take a shower?"

"No...I was reading research in case Dad called. Have you heard from him?"

"Not in a coupla days. He's okay, Sammy. Probably just busy right now."

Sam looked skeptical. "Yeah, I guess. So how much do you do that? Hustle pool for us?"

"Just when we run low. Don't worry about it, dude. I got it covered." Dean didn't want Sam worrying about stuff like that; those were his problems—it was his job to look after Sammy, not the other way around.

"I know, but I wanna help."

"You know how you can help?"

Sam perked up, listening intently. "Yeah."

"Take a shower. You totally stink."

"Dean, I'm n—"

"Not a little kid," Dean finished for him. "I know, Sam. Now for real, get in the shower before I decide to take all the hot water." Sam grumbled but did it. Dean sighed, thankful his little brother didn't keep going with it—this was Dean's lucky year, after all.

When Dean heard the water start he made his way into the kitchen, hoping they had _something_ he could make for dinner. They didn't have the money to order a pizza and pay a delivery fee, not really, unless Dean wanted to hustle again, but he really didn't like pushing his luck for two days in a row. Plus he was pretty sure he'd get his ass kicked if he tried to do it too soon. He pulled off the cute, lucky kid today, but it wouldn't work twice—he knew that from experience.

After digging through the fridge and the one cabinet in the room, prospects were low; they had one can of Spaghetti-o's, two pieces of bread, an apple, and a half a gallon of orange juice. Dean sighed. They'd want breakfast, so he'd save the bread for toast in the morning and split the apple between them. At least they'd have orange juice, but it sucked that there wasn't any butter.

He made the Spaghetti-o's in the microwave and dropped the bowl onto the table with a glass of water just as Sam was coming out of the bathroom. He was wearing another pair of Dean's old pajama's; they were flannel and warm, even though they were old, but they almost swallowed his little brother. Sammy was still small for his age and Dean just kept growing. He figured it was just a matter of time before his brother caught up with him, but he enjoyed Sammy being that size.

"Eat up. I'm gonna take a shower."

Sam looked from the bowl to Dean, a confused and concerned expression on his face. "What are you gonna eat?"

"Dude I already ate. Grabbed a sandwich at the pool hall," Dean lied.

A look of relief flashed on Sam's face and Dean smiled. Sam dropped into the chair and started shoveling the soup into his mouth, clearly hungry. Dean thought about it—they hadn't skipped lunch, but it'd been a small one, and Sammy worked out pretty hard with him earlier. Dean put his hand on his own stomach, coughing loudly when it growled, hoping to mask the sound. If Sam knew Dean wasn't eating just so that he could, he'd refuse and make a big deal out of it. Luckily Sam didn't seem to notice and for that Dean was thankful.

He'd only had to go without food a couple times, but it was pretty terrible for Dean—he liked to eat; scratch that, he _loved_ to eat. But there was no way he was going to watch Sam go hungry because he wanted the last can of soup. No way. Besides, he'd have toast in the morning, and then they'd go shopping for some groceries. He could hold out until then.

When he got out of the shower Sam was sitting on the bed, cleaning the weapons. "Dean! Check it out—look how fast I can assemble the shotgun. I've been practicing like you showed me."

"That's awesome, Sammy."

Sam was still a little clumsy at it, but he was getting a lot faster. Pretty soon he'd be able to do it as fast as Dean. Dean smiled as he watched his brother work, pride swelling inside him knowing he was the one who taught Sam that particular skill and now he was close to mastering it. Dad would be happy too.

Twenty minutes later they were sprawled out on the floor watching an old VHS copy of Star Wars that Dean had lifted from a pawn shop. He smiled at the memory. Sammy wanted it for his birthday one year, but Dad got mixed up and bought him Star Trek instead. Dean swiped it later that day and gave it to Sam in secret; their dad never found out because he wasn't super invested in either movie, so they just pretended it was the one he'd bought in the first place. It was a win win; Dad thought he bought the perfect gift, and Sam received the perfect gift.

"Dean," Sam said, interrupting Princess Leia's plea for help. "Will you teach me to hustle pool?"

"Sure."

"When?"

"I dunno, soon I guess." He considered it carefully. He'd teach Sam, but he still wouldn't bring Sam. He'd save that argument for later though. Sam grinned, clearly satisfied, and turned his attention back to the movie.

Dad had taught Dean to play the game when he was really little—he _hadn't_ taught Dean to hustle. Dean figured that out on his own through some painful trial and error, but Dad and Sammy didn't need to know that. Dean didn't know what their dad thought when it came to the money stuff—he'd come back from hunts and they'd still have food and a little extra money, but Dad never asked questions and Dean never offered any explanations.

"I wish I had a lightsaber."

"I wish I had princess Leia." _Or Han Solo._ Dean wasn't going to entertain that line of thought, and let it slide into the darkest, deepest crevices of his mind.

"Gross, Dean."

Dean smirked. "Someday you'll understand, sport."

Sam turned around and gave him a bitch face. "Don't call me sport, Dean-o."

He was on top of Sam instantly. Clearly he was too fast for Sam to realize what was going on, because he stared up at his brother with pure shock written across his face. Dean pinned his wrists down with one hand and used the other to dig lightly into Sam's ribs. Sam yelped, hysterical laughter escaping his lips, his smaller body wriggling around as he tried desperately to get away.

"Stop. It. Dean," he squealed, his words interrupted by the laughter.

"Say give."

"I give!"

Dean paused. "Say Dean's cooler than Han Solo."

When Sam didn't respond, just looked up at him with pseudo defiance, Dean started tickling again. "Okay, okay!" Dean waited. "You're cooler than Han Solo."

Dean grinned, satisfied, and let Sam get up. They didn't talk much after that, just some commentary here and there on the movie, and a few arguments on who would be Luke and who would be Han. Dean said Sammy would be C3PU—Sam wasn't impressed.

It wasn't a surprise when Sam's eyes started to droop three quarters of the way through, but Dean didn't say anything, just let him fall asleep in front of the T.V. He finished the movie and checked to make sure Sam was sound asleep. Satisfied by the sound of light snoring, Dean made his way over to the hotel phone. He called his dad's cell—he still couldn't believe his dad splurged on one of those—and was only slightly disappointed when he got the voicemail. He left a quick message and hung up.

Sighing, he scooped Sammy up and laid him on the bed, tucking him in. He went back into the kitchen to wash the dishes and smiled when he saw that Sam must've done it while he was in the shower. Dean was glad because he was exhausted. He literally fell into bed, not bother to change into pajamas. Sam was sleeping soundly in the bed next to him and he smiled, but it was small, rueful, and it didn't quite reach his eyes.

He told himself not to worry about their dad, that he would come back because he always did. Dean knew that was true, but he still hated the wait. He just wished Dad would at least check in or something—mostly because it freaked Sam out pretty bad. He looked over at his brother. Dad or no Dad, they'd survive as long as they needed to—he'd make sure of it.


End file.
